


Burning Like a Flame

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 14:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: They come to Los Santos in search of the pack rumored to run this city. Experienced Hunters who have been lured to this city by the promise of a challenge. Something to test their skills, and a hefty reward from certain parties if they're successful.





	Burning Like a Flame

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s2uLELuQvjw) on repeat, and then this happened? :D?

They come to Los Santos in search of the pack rumored to run this city. Experienced Hunters who have been lured to this city by the promise of a challenge. Something to test their skills, and a hefty reward from certain parties if they're successful.

They find the Golden Boy where they were told they would, sauntering down the street like he thinks he owns the city. Not a care in the world as he catches sight of them, several heavily armed men moving to block his path. Guiding him into an alley where the only way out is through them, and the odds of that are slim.

He's young, the Golden Boy, and reckless with it. 

Ridiculous sunglasses perched on his nose as he tips his head to the side and grins at them, hands in his pockets. Body language loose and relaxed and absolutely not a care in the world.

“Lovely night, isn't it?” he asks, gentle breeze ruffling his hair. 

There's something oddly predatory about him when he takes a step towards them, smile widening when he sees the way they react. 

Weapons coming up, trained on him – wary, even though all the information they've been given, have gathered for themselves, says he's not a 'shifter. That he's _human_. Mortal flesh and bone and no real threat compared to the things they've hunted in the past, and _yet_. 

It's not unheard of for packs to hold human members within their ranks. Has become less and less rare as time goes by, and old traditions are left by the wayside in favor of modern thinking. 

There are those pulled into packs against their will, used as a bargaining piece, a shield against Hunters who hold to their codes. Those who wander only to find themselves within a pack's territory and nowhere else to go, and so they stay. And then there are those like the Golden Boy, said to hold the leashes to the most dangerous pack of werewolves in Los Santos.

Pretty words and a pretty face that fool so many over the years.

“Oh, now that's interesting, isn't it?” he asks, pushing his sunglasses into his hair as he takes another step forward, gives them a pitying look. “Working on outdated information, are you?” 

There's confusion, lower-ranked Hunters looking between themselves as he flicks at the bandolier one of them has slung over his chest, bullets a bright and shining silver. 

The Golden Boy shakes his head and _tsks_ , like they're schoolchildren who haven't done their studying.

“It's a myth, you know,” he says, hands back in his pockets as he rocks on his heels. “The thing about silver bullets. Total rubbish.”

And this is a thing they were warned about, the Golden Boy's way with words. His ability to bend minds to his will easily as any fae. Smart and clever and dangerous with it, able to bring a city its knees with the monsters at his back.

One of the Hunters spooks when the Golden Boy reaches out to pluck a bullet from the bandolier, get a better look at it perhaps, and fires.

There's a noise, pained, and the Golden Boy staggers. Back hitting a wall, bright spatter of blood flying through the air, and then silence.

Hard and heavy because there's a _code_ for Hunters like them. 

Protect humans, fragile and breakable and unprepared for the monsters that prey on them from the shadows. Harm one, through intent or some other happenstance, and there will be consequences. Other guilds, clans will hear of it, and take the appropriate measures because they've seen what can happen if they don't police their own, and this - 

“Oh, dear,” the Golden Boy says, voice strained as he pulls his hand away from his arm where the bullet struck him, and looks at the blood staining it. “That's not good at all.”

\- this is not the first time something like this has happened with this particular clan of Hunters.

Accidents and incidents and a string of bodies behind them as they continue in search of bigger targets, harder challenges and always, always, this code that they claim to live by.

Smaller packs brought low by them, bonds shattered and aching and a wandering path thick with blood leading to the darkly shining jewel of the west coast of Los Santos and the pack that rules over it.

And this is the thing, so many Hunters like these forget.

Things have changed over the years, packs learning it's not enough to just survive. That sticking to their territory and allowing other packs to see to their own will no longer work if they hope to thrive in this modern day and age. 

So they learn and adapt alongside the Hunters who watch them, waiting for them to put a foot wrong before sweeping in to deal with the threat.

They welcome human members with their modern thinking and appallingly simple solutions. Learn to keep track of threats like rogue Hunters, those who find a way to cover their tracks. Muddy the waters surrounding unfortunate incidents in which humans are killed in the confusion of a fight against a pack. Accidents and incidents and too many in too short a time to be anything but.

They lay a trail, set down bread crumbs and offer up rewards for people who pay lip-service to a code they never respected, and wait and wait and wait until the Hunters arrive in Los Santos. Cross over the invisible borders of a pack known to show no mercy to people like them, who live by a set of codes of their own devising. 

“No,” the Golden Boy says, shot and bleeding and _smiling_. “That's not good at all.”

There's the soft click of nails on asphalt behind them, a low rumbling growl that slowly fills the air around them.

The Hunters turn to see the hulking shapes of werewolves in full shift. Big black-furred bastard leading them, eyes nearly glowing as he steps forward. The Hunters instinctively fall back, closing ranks as the werewolves approach. Herding them away from the Golden Boy, allowing enough room between them for the Golden Boy to slip past the Hunters unchallenged.

The two smaller werewolves move to flank him, ears flat against their heads, fangs bared and still growling.

“We've heard about you,” the Golden Boy says, dropping a hand onto the shoulder of one of the werewolves. Fingers threading into the thick fur of its ruff like he's holding it back. “Stories about run-ins you've had with other packs. How you managed to break that little code off yours again and again, and thinking you got away with any of it."

The Golden Boy tips his head to the side, eyes flicking over the Hunters gathered in front of him. Searching for something he must not find because he sighs, pulling his hand from the werewolf's fur as he takes a step back.

“You should have listened,” he says, something final to his words because every single rumor attached to Los Santos - to this pack in particular - came with a warning, and these Hunters ignored every last one. “You never should have come here.”

One of the Hunters sneers, takes aim intent clear in his ever action - if they're going to die here, he's going to take the pack's precious human with them, one final act of petty cruelty for the sake of it - 

But the Hunters are human, and so pathetically slow and clumsy against the power and grace and utter ferocity they're facing in these werewolves who have been waiting for them, anger burning in them at the crimes they've committed in the name of righteousness. Of protecting the innocent, and never once realizing how narrow their definition of the word was.

The big black-furred bastard _moves_.

Unnaturally fast like all his kind, and furious at the injury done to his packmate and all the others these hunters have killed along the way.

There's a strangled scream as the Hunter dies fast and bloody, the others too slow to react as the other werewolves attack. Ripping out throats and breaking bones between their jaws as they make short work of this pitiful little clan who failed to realize the trap they were walking into all this time.

Gunfire rings out, but the werewolves are faster, slipping through lines of fire with ease until the only ones standing in that alley are pack.

“Well, then,” the Golden Boy says, faint smile playing at his lips at the werewolves turn as one at the sound of his voice. “Nice to have that bit of business taken care of, eh, lads?”

The big black-furred bastard snorts, shaking himself before he makes his way to the Golden Boy. Stopping inches away to eye him critically, a low whine coming from him as he tugs gently at the hem of the Golden Boy's shirt.

“Oh, stop it,” the Golden Boy says, something fond in his voice as he pushes the black werewolf's face away from him, turning to the other werewolves standing certain distance away from them, concern in every line of their bodies. “All of you, I'm fine. It was my plan in the first place, wasn't it?”

Dangle a tempting bit of bait for the Hunters, a fragile little human running with a pack of wolves. No fangs or claws of his own, not like theirs, and far easier to handle than a furious werewolf, shifted or not. (Or he should have been, but these Hunters were never that smart. Just clever, and lucky for far too long.)

The black werewolf grumbles, butting his head against his side, and the Golden Boy laughs as he lets him bully him out of the alley and down the street where a Roosevelt sits idling. A familiar face behind the wheel and another in the backseat.

Leaders of this little pack that's managed to rise to the top in a city that's never been kind to anyone with ambitions as grand as that. Always finds a way to break them down before too long, and _yet_.

They're still in human form, but only just. Signs of the shift in the sharpness of their teeth, their nails. The faint growl to their voices and the look in their eyes, far from human and oddly comforting for it.

“I told you it was a stupid plan,” the one in the backseat says, nostrils flaring as he scents blood, hands gentle as he examines the Golden Boy's wound. “Fucking idiot.”

The Golden Boy shrugs as he leans into his touch, safe, comforting. Reaches back and pulls the door shut in the faces of the shifted werewolves crowding him, worried, anxious, even though they know he's in no real danger.

“You're going to pay for that one later,” the driver says, amusement thick in his voice as the others snap at the glass of the back windows in annoyance.

The Golden Boy grins, pain and exhaustion pulling at him as the car pulls away from the curb.

"Worth it, though," he says, something hard and cold easing in his chest as he watches the shifted werewolves running alongside the car like an honor guard. Fierce and defiant in the face of a world that would rather they be dead than what they are. "Definitely worth it."


End file.
